


You and Me, and the Silence In-Between

by Yiichi



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Future Fic, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sad, Voice Loss, Writing this made me sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-24 07:04:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yiichi/pseuds/Yiichi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even without speaking, it's easy to hear what you're thinking.</p><p>You don't need to fill this silence with words. I can hear everything you want to say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You and Me, and the Silence In-Between

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize in advance for any mistakes I've made in describing the sign-language. I've used ASL (American Sign Language) as opposed to British, because of where Beacon Hills is geographically placed.
> 
> I wrote this and made myself sad. I swear one day I'll write something that isn't covered in sads.
> 
> Come hang out with me [on my Tumblr!](http://yijitumbles.tumblr.com/)

The pack has been in Derek’s backyard for an hour already before Scott and Allison arrive, the trunk of their four-wheel-drive almost overflowing with food. The Autumnal afternoon air is crisp, but pleasant, and the air in the yard is abuzz with chatter and carefree laughter. Isaac’s just finished sweeping the leaves off the new decking, and Boyd’s busy setting up the grill for lunch when they pull up, waving merrily as Stiles slides out from their back seat, grinning from ear to ear as the trio begin unloading.

It’s a party for Jackson and Lydia’s engagement. Stiles still can’t believe that the taciturn on/off couple are finally tying the knot, but then again, they’ve always been head over heels for each other. Hefting the empty plastic drinks cooler over his shoulder and the bag of ice under an arm, he ambles his way through the gate and down the shallow steps, pausing only long enough from the deck to nod to Erica and Boyd knowingly, both werewolves rubbing shoulders in a way that was just a little too friendly to be considered platonic. Oh well, they’d figure it out soon enough. He deposited his cargo against the back door and shook Jackson’s hand, clapping him on the shoulder with a grin, still half-surprised when Jackson returned it. Sure, they’d thoroughly despised each other for years, but you couldn’t really belong to a pack and hate one of your own after so long.

“Look at you, not a hoodie in sight. You’re finally taking my fashion advice to heart.” Lydia coos, tapping over in her heels and pecking him on the cheek. “I’m so glad you made it, Stiles.”

 _-Wouldn’t have missed it for the world-_ he signs back, smiling at her fondly. He’s still wearing jeans, of course, but they’re fitted and dressier, and the dark turtleneck accentuates his eyes to make them almost golden. Lydia beams at him, and then wraps him into her arms in an affectionate hug, because they’re totally squeeze-buddies now. It’s such a happy occasion that Jackson doesn’t even try to hide his chuckle, and then he’s gone, probably to join Boyd and Scott in the manly tradition of staring at the grill and discussing the best, manliest way of grilling a beef patty.

“Go help Derek in the kitchen; he’s getting the salad ready.” Lydia pushes him fondly towards the back door.

 _-Salad?-_ Stiles blinks, surprised, his hands loosely curled like salad tongs as he signs, sweeping them in arcs in front of his chest. He’s surprised they’re even bothering, what with an entire pack full of meat-eaters, and most of them male. He ducks to avoid her playful swat and heads inside, pausing only enough to kiss Allison’s cheek and give her growing tummy an affectionate rub. He can’t wait another four months, but already he knows he’s going to be the most awesome godfather ever. He’d even considered growing a pencil moustache and wearing a three-piece suit every time he’ll visit, which would be nothing short of awesome.

 

 

* * *

 

The witch has pulled some kind of freaky voodoo shit, because Stiles’ grimoire has shot out of his hands and flown across the warehouse, completely out of reach. It’s no biggie, because he’s memorised the enchantment off by heart. He’s never been gladder for his ability to talk a million miles a second, because he’s reciting the incantations off like a rocket, even as he’s running for his life, the creature biting at his heels.

“Guys, _hurry your asses up!_ ” he screeches between spells, flailing wildly and scrabbling around a corner, the pack fighting off the rest of the creatures. Normally he’s glad that, after all these years, he can at least be of some help in the supernatural-beast-extermination thing they have going on, but as usual he’s regretting every single life choice as he runs, puffing and gibbering in Latin again. The witch is now focused on Stiles and his little manic hamster running, because he’s turned towards him and is muttering under his breath.

Perfect, just what Stiles was hoping for.

“ _Now!_ ” he yells, and Scott breaks free from one of the beasts long enough to tackle the witch to the ground, an act of grace perfected by years of lacrosse training and werewolf abilities. They land heavily, right in the spell circle Stiles chalked under the tarpaulin. The last of the words in the incantation tumble from Stiles’ lips just as he’s thrown to the ground, the monster above him a mess of scales and drool-flecked teeth.

Everything happens in that one instant. The circle beneath the tarp glows an iridescent gold and shimmers even through the thick fabric. The witch lets out a piercing shriek as the symbols on the floor glow dazzlingly, bursting into ashes that disappear into the air. The rest of the monsters share the same fate, screeching inhumanly as they too dissolve into nothingness.

And Stiles never speaks again.

 

 

* * *

 

Derek is in the kitchen, slicing tomatoes with an air of stern concentration. Stiles grins to himself, and he doesn’t even know why anymore because there are so many things to be happy about. He shouldn’t find the actuality that the kitchen has stopped smelling of fresh paint and new wood exciting, but he does. It smells like somebody’s home now, like Derek’s home, and he’s almost dizzy with glee. Derek’s hands still on the cutting board and he looks up quickly, his face splitting into a wide smile that has Stiles’ heart skipping and his head spinning.

“Hey,” the Alpha murmurs warmly, opening an arm out for Stiles to sidle into. Their lips meet halfway, the peck chaste and warm, easy. Their hands find each other’s chest, a simple gesture between the two of them as familiar as a handshake, as a well-rehearsed dance.

_-Mine-_

“Did you just get here now?” Derek smiles behind his ear, and Stiles nods and wraps his arms around the other’s waist, holding him close and letting himself be held closer. He’s glad that things have quietened down, because Derek’s smiling more often now, and he never gets tired of seeing that smile, seeing how it lights up his entire face. He steals a slice of cucumber and keeps himself plastered against his boyfriend, even as the other turns back to finish chopping the vegetables.

“We’d better get back out there, before the guys eat all the food first,” Derek laughs, and Stiles closes his eyes and feels the warm chuckle in his chest reverberate through his entire body.

 

 

* * *

 

He’s kept in an induced coma for four days. When he finally wakes up, he finds a slew of people crumpled awkwardly in uncomfortable hospital chairs. His father is beside him, in a position that practically screams of the lower-back agony to come.

Derek is on his other side, brow furrowed in sleep and fingers entwined in his own.

Stiles keeps still for as long as he can. In a few minutes, there’ll be a flurry of activity in his room big enough for the nurse to come in and shriek at the top of her lungs to everybody. For the precious few moments before the tornado hits, though, Stiles quietly reflects on everything that’s happened, and almost chokes on his overwhelming feelings of appreciation for his friends. After all, those hospital seats are absolute murder on the tush.

 

 

* * *

 

They eat until they’re fit to burst, and even then there’s still too much food left over. Danny and Isaac keep trying to surpass each other in the kitchen, and the lunch is a cacophony of barbequed meats and over-the-top hors d'oeuvres, finger foods and devilled eggs (which Stiles has eaten way too many of). There’s laughter and banter, and, of course, the congratulatory toast. By the time they finish that, it’s gotten darker, so Derek and Boyd put out the mosquito coils and switch on the lights, and they’re eating dinner as well. It’s a day where everyone feels joy, and tries to outdo each other with embarrassing stories, anecdotes and jokes. Scott is glowing almost as much as Allison, tracing the gentle swell of her stomach with a thumb the whole time, and they’ve established a betting pool now on whether the baby’s going to be a boy or a girl. Stiles swats at Derek’s arm when he tries to double the odds by suggesting a ‘with or without fur’ option, but the slap against the other’s broad shoulder is affectionate, bordering on ‘I wonder why I didn’t think of that first?’.

“This is the first addition to the pack,” Derek murmurs proudly, their chairs close and his arm slung around Stiles’ shoulders. The brush of his lips against his ear makes Stile shiver, just a touch, and replies with a peaceful smile, a soft tilt of his lips as warmth unfurls from his chest like the slow uncurl of a fern leaf. He points downwards, then traces a circle with both his indexes and thumbs pinched together, connecting an invisible ring in the air.

_-This is family-_

 

 

* * *

 

Lydia was the first to pick up sign language fluently. He never doubter her ability in that aspect, coming from someone who learnt Archaic Latin for funsies. She sits with him in the stuffy hospital rooms between his surgeries to tutor him. He’s immeasurably glad of this, because his handwriting is still sloppy and barely legible, and his brain works so much faster than his hand that, most times, he throws the pen across the room in frustration and folds his arms, refusing to communicate. At least this way, he can connect with people better, without having to hang a damn notepad and paper around his neck, around his ruined vocal cords.

He’s surprised (and, admittedly, more than a little pleased) when Derek picks it up faster than his father, though.

 

 

* * *

 

“There’s always a downside to having a good time,” Boyd reflects in his smooth, soft voice, rubbing one of the plates with a washcloth.

 _-Dishes-_ Stiles signs back with a roll of his eyes, and the boys crack up between themselves, the mountains of crockery starting to pile up on the kitchen bench. The girls are outside, chattering away excitedly about the plans for the wedding, and which would look best for a dress, ivory or champagne? Stiles is sprawled on one of the breakfast stools, beer in hand, being as lazy as he can get. Scott sees him checking out Derek’s backside as he bends over to put some of the dishes away, and playfully flicks him with his washcloth as Stiles’ guard is down.

Stiles fixes him with an offended eyebrow-and-lip-curl combo and drags his middle finger off the flat of his other palm, the gesture bigger than usual to signify Stiles’ exuberant capitalisation.

_-Rude!-_

“Settle down, ladies,” Jackson intervenes, snatching Stiles’ half-finished beer off the counter and draining it (earning himself a repeated gesture from Stiles). “She needs to sort out everything soon, so I’ll let you guys know the colour scheme for the ties to match the bridesmaid dresses. I’m pretty sure if you five” and he gestures to the others, “buy the same tie, they’ll give you a discount.”

Stiles counts the men in the room – Scott, Derek, Isaac, Boyd and Danny, and himself. That made six. He turns and quirks an eyebrow at Jackson, as if to ask where he was lost in the count. Jackson rolls his eyes at him in silent reproach (or probably asking himself why he was still friends with the idiot of the group), but there’s no malice in it anymore.

“You’re gonna have to ask Lydia about the deets, man. Derek’s on the groom’s side, so she’s gonna have you in her bridal party to pair you two. Maybe she’ll get you to wear a bowtie or something to match the girl’s dresses.”

“Or maybe she’ll just get you in a dress to match the rest of them.” Isaac shrugs. Stiles’ happy grin is still plastered on his face when he flips him off.

 

 

* * *

 

What they’d had, before that fateful night, was still inexperienced and new. He and Derek had finally realized that perhaps their closeness was a by-product of something other than friendship. They’d kept saving each other, time and time again, until it had grown as almost an in-joke between them. His father’s words kept ringing in his ears every time they’d hauled one another out of a scrape (“One is an incident, two is a coincidence, three is a pattern”) and idly wondering what eight meant, what eleven meant, and so on.

It hadn't been easy, and it certainly hadn't been smooth sailing. But the time they’d spent together had been the best days of Stiles’ existence. He could remember every incident between them. The first time their fingers had laced together had been while they were on a stakeout at a cemetery, waiting for some nasty ghoul or goblin to show themselves (to this day, Stiles thinks it was the most romantic visit to the cemetery ever). Their first kiss had been inside Derek’s Camaro after he’d been dropped off home, exhausted from a long night of study as the pack worked together to compile werewolf facts for a database. Derek had leaned in first, cautiously, as if he might spook the younger man away with a sudden movement. It had been devastatingly slow and restrained, everything Stiles hadn't expected from Derek, but found himself thrilled with nonetheless. Their first night together was two weeks to the day after their first kiss, and Stiles had been surprised at how inexperienced Derek was, how new and innocent their lovemaking had been. They’d held each other close after that, and Derek had told him about Kate. Stiles talked about his mother. In each other’s arms, they fell to pieces and built each other up again, one fragment and kiss after another.

That’s also when they whispered _‘I love you’_ to each other for the first time.

Derek had blamed himself at first. It was, after all, what he was best at – blaming every situation that had gone pear-shaped on himself. But Lydia (good old Lydia) had practically dragged him out of the hospital by his ear, and given him a blistering talking-to. They all knew what they’d signed up for, after all. Stiles was just glad that he wasn’t dead, and everybody had made it out alright.

Because they’d been so new, he’d been more than expecting Derek to call time on their relationship. He wouldn’t have blamed him – he’d feel shitty for a while, sure, but he honestly couldn’t have blamed anybody in that position, to stick with their ‘only just out of the wrapper brand new’ boyfriend after such a gigantic shitstorm had gone down. This was why it came as such a shock when Derek decided to stay.

“Just because you got hurt doesn’t mean I’m going to leave,” he’d huffed at his bedside, sounding completely annoyed despite his eyebrows showing approximately three dozen different expressions per minute. Wheezing around his breathing tube in a charade of a laugh, Stiles weakly crossed his arms over his chest and pointed at the Alpha. Derek froze completely, his light-coloured eyes wide and clear. He didn’t say anything for a long time, but just as Stiles began to worry, wondering whether he’d signed right or not (he’s still so new to this, new to the idea that he won’t ever speak again), Derek's face lit up, his lips widening to that precious, rare smile he’d started to show him.

“I love you too,” he murmured, his large, calloused hands caressing the side of Stile’s face, tangling gently in his short hair. For the first time since he’s entered the hospital, his lips curve into a smile around the plastic tube.

 

 

* * *

 

Stiles might have lost the ability to talk, but he can still breathe. And, in turn, he can gasp, and sigh. When they’re making love, it’s in silence. Derek refuses to make a sound other than what slips out of him, because that’s when he can hear his lover the best. The silence in-between them becomes a rhapsody of breaths, and Derek’s mapped out the human’s body so thoroughly that he’s memorized each and every sound.

After the party’s ended and everybody’s left, Stiles stays the night. They spend hours tracing each other’s bodies with their lips and fingers. They’re in a happy, playful mood, their joy bolstered by the happy news from their pack, their family. The only downside is that Derek also likes to tease, and by the time he’s ready to enter Stiles, the younger man is practically sobbing with need. It’s hurried after that – Stiles clutching at Derek like he’s a man dying of thirst, and the Alpha is an oasis. When they come, Derek grits his teeth and fights every atom of his body to still, so he can hear that precious, shuddering intake of breath from the other’s lips. Only then, after he hears it, does he lose himself and follow Stiles over the edge.

They lie tangled together, the blankets a complete mess around their knees, and trace their fingertips across each other’s skin. Derek kisses Stiles slowly and softly, their afterglow like a drug, tracing down his jawline and the jagged scars of his neck gently with his lips. Stiles exhales contentedly and entwines his fingers into Derek’s dark hair and snuffles against the tickling sensation against his skin.

“Hey,” Derek murmurs, and Stiles fights to creak his eyes open, when all his body wants to do after a good couple of hours of sex is sleep. Derek is watching him with unbridled fondness in his eyes, and sits up just enough to use both his arms when he turns to Stiles.

_\- Live with me. Here. -_

Derek doesn’t sign much, unless they’re in public and he wants to keep their conversation private. Or if he wants to have all of Stiles’ attention, which, by now, he has completely. Stiles makes a choked noise in the back of his throat, before launching himself off the bed and tackling the werewolf down onto the mattress, covering his face in urgent kisses. He’s scared for a moment, not because of what the future might bring, but because his heart is hammering inside his ribcage so fast that it might explode at any moment. He wants to say something, he wants to sign, but Derek has flipped them over again and is holding his arms down against the mattress. Stiles’ amber eyes go wide, his mouth slack with a goofy grin.

“You don’t need to say anything,” the Alpha smiles, a mischievous wink in his eye, followed by a tender expression. “Your pulse is going at a million miles a minute. I can hear everything you’re wanting to say loud and clear. I always have.”

And if that’s not enough to convince Stiles to stay forever, he doesn’t know what is.

 


End file.
